


Thoughts

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Endings [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Gen Work, M/M, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a suggestion I got long ago on Tumblr:<br/>"In inquisiton it's mentioned that the warden is looking for a cure for the calling, I'm really interested in seeing Theron deciding that he doesn't want to die because of the calling, maybe while he is Antiva? :)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts

The nights in Antiva were warm, and were enough of a reminder of his home forests that Theron managed to get over his homesickness surprisingly quickly. Evenings were sultry, and as Zevran had once said they were perfect for killing and lovemaking both - both could vouch for the latter being true. The years they’d spent were definitely worth the initial trepidation and the ordeal of travelling by sea, followed by the Crows snapping at their heels.

The rain helped, washing away the oppressiveness of the day’s heat that lingered over the city as darkness fell. Candles encased in glass hanging from or set on top of walls gave the streets a warm  but intermittent glow, and allowed the two elves to slip from shadow to shadow rather than stroll laughing and wooing like other, more normal couples, when they desired a bit of excitement.

They were in Rialto again, Theron standing on the dusty balcony of their whitewashed, slightly crumbling apartment as the evening drew in. A gentle rain was falling, water dripping through his braids and onto his linen shirt, but he didn’t care. Apart from the cold, he was almost ignorant of the rain entirely.

He didn’t look behind him when he heard the soft pad of feet approaching from the small room through the doorway, but he glanced over when Zevran leant against the balcony next to him casually. The loose white tunic he wore served to contrast against his golden skin, which had darkened under his native Antivan sun far more than it ever could have in Ferelden, and his blond hair was streaked with sun-bleached highlights. The two of them surveyed the narrow street below, the silence for once verging on uncomfortable.

Zevran had finally asked if he was well, which meant he’d known for at least a week, if not longer, had already suspected for months, and was truly worried. He’d seen enough of the bruises and light marks, had watched as they faded slower each time they were made. Theron’s silence and withdrawal from the room served answer enough to the question.

“Is it…?” The blond asked, breaking the evening quiet and the hush of the rain around them.

“Yes.” The ranger nodded once, heart heavy. Of course he’d told Zevran about the Calling, once they were safely away from Ferelden and all matters related to the Grey Wardens. The back of his neck itched as cool water dripped down, and the back of his mind was tugged at by a sweet, quiet tune, beckoning him draw closer to hear it better, back across the sea, to the maw of the earth...

“How long will you have?”

Theron shrugged, casting his mind back. It had been a decade since they had left Ferelden to rebuild itself after the Blight, and according to the letters Alistair sent to the safehouse in Antiva City, the Grey Wardens were reestablishing themselves at the same time. They no longer needed the Hero of Ferelden to sort out their problems.

It had been a decade since he had killed the Archdemon, and now here was the sickness beginning to return to claim him at last. He could still remember that day with Tamlen in the ruin with the mirror, and when Duncan had invoked the Right of Conscription to save his life.

Life. What was it worth to a Grey Warden who had forsaken that title and a former Crow hunted by the organisation he had once belonged to? They had both grasped for it when opportunities had arisen, and now? Theron glanced surreptitiously at the blond standing beside him, those golden eyes focused on the dark street below. They had remained together, and he doubted that Zevran would willingly let him go off to the Deep Roads by himself, if at all.

Would they stay together now his Calling was upon him? If Zevran had his way, certainly. Would they carry on as normal and pretend that he wasn’t growing worse with each passing week, once again slowly dying of corruption? How long _would_ he have?

“I’m not sure.” The ranger answered with a helpless shrug. His shirt stuck to his back now, and he ignored it. The rain was cool, and hidden insects droned from the sheltering plants that lined the street below, creeping vines that climbed up the sides of buildings in pursuit of the sun, waxy, large-leaved bushes with bright flowers that seemed more like stunted trees. “All I know is that I don’t want to die like this.” Theron sighed.

“We have outsmarted the Crows for this long, I would hate to lose you to something so minor as a song stuck in your head.” Zevran nodded, always the one to downplay the seriousness of an unfavourable situation, keeping up his facade. “What shall we do, then?” He asked, turning to lean back against the railing of the balcony, drumming his fingers lightly against the metal.

Theron was silent. He had no wish to sicken and die, to resume what the Joining had delayed years ago. But nor did he want to cut his life short a day, a week from now with sleeping poison or a kind knife to his throat from the man he loved and was loved by. To do that to Zevran… No, he couldn’t. What would the Antivan do once he was gone? Continue to outwit the Crows as he grieved?

“Something...” Theron answered, frowning in thought. Rain dripped down the thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, off the tip of his crooked nose. It had been broken in a bar fight three years ago due to a Rivani merchant who’d offered a choice comment about the two elves trading quick kisses, and had simply refused to believe that the fabled Hero of Ferelden could possibly be a “savage knife-ear buggerer”.

“Shall we return to Ferelden?” Zevran suggested. The ranger began to shake his head at the suggestion, but stopped. They _could_ return to Ferelden, but not so he could simply die on home soil.

“Yes.” Theron nodded, frown clearing at once as the seed of an idea started to grow. An impossible, insane idea that might just work anyway. He looked at Zevran, and smiled. “I think I have a plan.” He began as he pushed away from the balcony, retreating into the warmth and dryness of the bedroom as he began to plan what Zevran would write to Alistair.

  
Two days later, the elves were onboard the earliest ship set for Ferelden, preparing to return to a life of constant travel and moments of pleasure snatched when and wherever they could. It would be worth it, if they could find a way to prevent the Calling.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, I guess?


End file.
